Tending to The Abyss

Aka go for a walk, stupid.

Thru hiking in Algonquin Park, Canada in 2006

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For an entire week before my dad took his last breath, I walked three miles every day to get a plain ol’ cup of coffee. One measly, 12 ounce cup of coffee. Two sugars and several splashes of cream, please.

I had forgotten to pack enough warm clothes — I live in Florida, after all — for my trek to Toronto. I thought I’d stay inside anyway, since I was forced to quarantine for 14 days as per the government orders during the height of the lockdown.

On went the tights, a grey pair of snug-fitting jeans. Then the long sleeve shirt (tucked in, of course) and a fleece jacket I borrowed from my sister. I did remember to pack a ski cap, though.

The walk itself didn’t feel extraordinary. The snow no longer felt romantic — it turned into that grey sludge that somehow manages to get into your socks, and you complain the rest of the way home. There was nary a cloud in the sky, nor was it blue.

Weaving in and out of construction sites and broken sidewalks made it feel like an adventure.

And yet, the ordinary cup of coffee kept me going through the long road ahead, waiting for the inevitable and what lay beyond.

Just walk, I tell myself. Just walk, stupid.

It’s enough for now.

For the hour and a half when I made the trek, all I focused on was the next step. Whether I had to walk on frozen mud, grey sludge or look down so I didn’t trip on the broken sidewalk.

Maybe today is the day I’ll order a large coffee instead of medium. Or I’d go hog wild and not put in any cream at all (unless it’s a light roast Americano, no thank you).

When I get back to my mom’s home is when I’ll start to think about work, and my dad, and my family and squeeze in tending to my grief. I tell myself. No need to get overwhelmed 24/7. The emails will wait. The conversations will happen when they happen.

After the funeral, there didn’t seem to be any time for the walk. Paperwork needed to be filled out. Showing my mom how to claim survivor benefits. Being on the phone for hours trying to work with the agent figuring out why my flight home kept getting cancelled. Staring off into the dark.

The night before my flight, just after midnight, I walked outside in the frigid air. The wind pushed me onwards until my legs took me on that familiar route.

One gust after another, leading me to step in sludge, sidewalk cracks and in the parking lot of the coffee shop.

Thinking it was closed, I was about to turn until I noticed an employee walking in and a man in a puffy vest and bright orange ski cap walking out with a bag full of goodies.

“Medium double-double” I told the man asked behind the counter, about to tap my credit card on the machine.

“Will that be enough? I mean all?” he asked.

“Yes. It is.”